An Instrumental Possession
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: Collection of short snippets regarding Sherlock's most beloved possession and most constant companion.
1. Chapter 1

It was a Stradivarius, a genuine Stradivarius. Of course it was. It had belonged to a famous musician further up the family tree, and, knowing the adventures of the Holmeses, it had probably been in the family since it had been made in Cremona, three centuries ago. Not wishing it to be damaged by anyone, particularly the various small children who had been running around, the elders of the "manor" had placed it in a glass case, like one in a museum. Sherlock had seen it before. He had assumed that it was just a decoration. He hadn't expected, when he was eight, to see it extracted from this cabinet and placed, very carefully, into his hands.

At the age of just four, Sherlock had begun violin-lessons: chiefly because he was envious of his older brother, who, then eleven years old, had already passed his Grade 6 with flying colours. Sherlock had quickly distinguished himself. He was noticeably better than Mycroft, and furthermore seemed to enjoy playing a good deal more. Sometimes he locked himself in his bedroom for hours and produced waves of music, sometimes recognisable, sometimes entirely random streams of notes. His was a child's violin, and one of only a moderate quality, though he still managed to make it sing.

The Holmes parents considered buying him a new violin: but the enjoyment that Sherlock got from playing, and the extraordinary nature of his musicianship, merited something special: therefore, on his eighth birthday, they presented him with the prize of the household that had for so long stood silently in the dining-room.

He was made to try it out in front of them, and, because he was embarrassed by this, he had determined to play badly. But he quickly realised that with such an instrument playing badly was simply not an option. It sang. He adored it, he found himself becoming quickly obsessed with it. He forgot that he was being watched. He skated through a selection of his favourite pieces – the Mendelssohn Lieder, a peck of Sarasate – and, at last, when he opened his eyes, he was greeted unexpectedly by the sight of an audience and by rapturous applause.

He said it was entirely the violin's doing – he couldn't play that well, not really. His mother assured him that he had always been that good: he had just needed the right instrument. Whichever it was, he knew that this violin was already one of his favourite possessions, and that it would potentially be more of a companion to him than his parents had perhaps intended.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't remember quite what had happened. He thought it must have been when Redbeard died. He knew he had spent weeks in shock, unable to get over it, unable even to process what was going on. Dark thoughts had crossed his mind, thoughts that should never have occurred to a child: those he could remember, even if the trigger continued to elude him, no matter how hard he tried to grasp it.

He knew it had been a difficult time, and that he hadn't known what to _do_ for weeks, he'd just sat in deep thought, sometimes with his eyes closed, keeping so still that his parents had been concerned for him. He wondered why, in those first, most difficult days, he hadn't thought of turning to his old comfort.

He recalled vividly the sudden recollection that he was a musician. He'd woken up one morning with the crushing panic that comes from thinking you have a music-lesson and knowing you haven't practised for it. His mind was turbulent; he hadn't remembered, yet, that he hadn't had a lesson in weeks, but he had registered that he was horribly out of practice. Therefore he had sprung out of bed – startling his parents, because he had been so lethargic lately – and run over to the case that stood in the corner of the room, slightly behind his bookshelf, gathering dust already.

Touching the wood of the instrument had sent a shiver up his spine. He hadn't ventured to set up a stand, nor even to get out his sheet music: he had just drawn his bow a few times across the strings, checking it was in tune, and then launched into playing.

He hadn't played anything in particular. Just an undulating string of music, one that came and went with his thoughts and with the last vestiges of sanity to which he clung. Perhaps there was a bit of pieces he knew in there – Shostakovich-esque cynicism, vaulted dramatic Mahler, heartrending Brahms. But for the most part it was his own, no, it was more than that, it was _part_ of him. He told his instrument to sing, and it sent its song to the rafters and down to the foundations, shaking the whole house.

He wished he could remember but a part of what he had played. It might make for an interesting composition. There was a gap in his memory as the piece had become more insistent and more tragic; then he recalled footsteps coming up the stairs, and Mycroft standing almost hesitantly at his door, asking what composer had produced such an extraordinary and powerful piece.

Sherlock had shrugged. The answer would have been "my heart", but he wasn't much given to such painfully honest responses. He knew that Mycroft knew. His brother had given him one of those almost-hugs, told him that he was right there if he needed him, and left the room.

He had played in this abstract manner for days, and gradually, through his playing, had returned to himself. He remembered Mycroft smiling the day a scrap of Mendelssohn had emerged from his brother's room. He remembered his parents re-scheduling his violin-lessons, which had gone mostly as normal. He had taken a while to recover, but he had managed it, thanks for the most part to his beloved violin.

He just wished he could remember what had happened...


	3. Chapter 3

'You can't risk damaging it, Sherlock!'

'But I won't be able to play without it. I can't play a school violin.'

'You could take your brother's old one.'

'I hate that one. Its voice is awful.'

'Have you ever played your father's violin?'

'No, but I don't want to.'

'Your violin is a _genuine Stradivarius_ , Sherlock. Maybe you don't realise how much it's worth –'

'I know exactly how much it's worth. I know you considered selling it, when –'

'We'd never have sold it... We know how much you love it.'

'Then you'll understand why I can't take a different violin.'

'It'll get bashed around on the aeroplane.'

'Not in its case.'

'What if the insurance company won't cover it? Because it's _so_ valuable and _so_ likely to get at least a little damaged?'

'It'll be fine.'

'Sherlock –'

'Mummy, you don't understand... It's my violin, I haven't played a different one in eight years now... I'm not used to other violins. They don't sing like this one. I'm nervous enough about playing. It won't get damaged. I'll make sure it won't. You don't know how closely I'll watch it. If you want me to play at all, you will let me take it. I shan't go otherwise.'

'Sherlock –'

'I can't play the solo unless it's on _my_ violin. I can't. I know I can't. Don't make me. I don't have to go. It doesn't change anything. I shan't go, if I can't take my violin.'

'Sherlock, I know you want to go, really... You pretend it doesn't mean anything to you, but I know it does.'

'Then let me take it.'

'Are you sure you won't even try Mikey's –'

'No. And it's Mycroft, not Mikey.'

'Hmm. Very well. I'll let you. But for God's sake, Sherlock, _be careful_.'

'I always am, Mummy. Don't worry.'

* * *

He didn't mention the little nock in the back of the instrument, a tiny chip in the edge that nobody could notice, if they didn't know it was there. It was a souvenir. Somehow, it made the instrument dearer to him: it reminded him of that summer, that tour, that solo. If he ran his fingers over it he felt a surge of pride, a splash of happiness that seemed almost alien to him, and which scared him a little, but which on the whole he found he loved. He wouldn't have admitted it. It bordered on sentimentality. But that summer, that tour, that solo had made of his instrument a possession more cherished than ever before, and that nock, if it was an inevitable result, was quite the most fortunate accident that he could have hoped for.


End file.
